


magnum opus est delicata

by luna65



Category: Emerson Lake & Palmer (Band)
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9534134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna65/pseuds/luna65
Summary: "With the rich and mighty always a little patience"...the same applies to rock stars undergoing a painful evolution.





	1. tete-a-tete

**Author's Note:**

> This is primarily set in 1976, which is when the "arrangement" of ELP reconvened to continue as a band, and all the baggage, recriminations and dysfunction inherent in such an undertaking. But good things too, hence moving back-and-forth in time. Currently a WIP, so if you like where I'm going, please let me know! xo
> 
> Note: I split this up into chapters just to make it easier to know when it's been updated. :)  
> _____________________________
> 
> "Doomed enterprises divide lives forever into the then and the now."  
> \- Cormac McCarthy, _The Crossing_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now: a meeting  
> Then: a collaboration

Greg could see that everything which _had_ been wrong, _was_ wrong, could _be_ wrong, was summed up by the absence of Keith’s motorcycle in the car park of the Hotel Mon Repos. Or whatever conveyance he was using now, which his bandmate suspected would be flashy and fast. However, Carl’s trusty Rolls was present, and Greg briefly smiled. _Gods bless that punctual lad._

Traversing thick carpet and polished tile, in a back room of the hotel’s restaurant Greg found Carl and Stewart, making small talk with a plate of _pomme frites_ in the Belgian style between them, which Carl was pointedly ignoring, hands folded before his cup of tea.

“Where is he, then?” Greg demanded, his intonation heading South as it tended to do in unguarded moments. 

“Oh he’ll turn up,” Stewart reassured him, looking up with a wary expression, as if he knew he might be an equal target for Greg’s rancor.

“We agreed on a time, which means we _all_ agreed on a time,” Greg protested. “I don’t need this power-tripping diva nonsense of his!”

“Maybe he had trouble with the bike,” Carl reasoned, “they do tend to be fussy.”

“Then he just takes the car!”

“Oh that never comes to no good, does it?” Carl teased. “That Lambo is cursed, I reckon.”

“It’s not the car, it’s the _driver_ ,” Greg countered. “He’s not man enough to handle that kind of power.”

“D’ya think there’s been another wreck?” Stewart said, looking worried. “I never thought of that -”

“He’s just _late_.” Greg’s response was peevish as he took a seat and a few potatoes from the communal plate. “Can I get a beer?” he called out, as it someone hovered nearby awaiting his pleasure.

Stewart jumped up. “P’haps I’d better ring him just to see, and I’ll tell them to bring you a pint.”

The remaining attendees sat in silence a moment.

“So that’s new,” Carl said, regarding the other. “But it’s -”

“Too short,” Greg replied, grimacing, “but I never said that.”

“Of course.” Carl smirked, then took a sip of tea. “Maybe he’s with Hans.”

“He’d better **not** be in bloody Zurich!”

“Oh right...well then, just late.”

“I needed a change,” Greg said, returning to the previous subject.

Carl stretched and ruffled his own hair. “Yeah sure, sometimes one does.”

The statement within that statement spoke volumes to each about their year apart.

“But I hate it.”

“When did you -”

“Last week.”

“Oh, well then too early to tell, I reckon.”

Greg nodded his newly-cropped head. “S’pose so.”

“I heard about Hans, though, he’s working on a movie.”

Greg barked a laugh as Stewart entered the room again, carrying pints.

“Who’d hire that madman?”

“Jodorowsky, of course!” Carl was grinning wide, perhaps at the thought of such artistic audacity.

Greg took a draught of his beer, then frowned. “Another lunatic. I couldn’t even sit through one of his movies.”

“I rather liked _El Topo_ ,” Carl opined. “But that’s the only one I’ve seen. Very weird, but a laugh.”

“I think that whole project’s gone to the dogs, actually,” Stewart said, taking a fry and swirling it around in a pinkish daub of Andalouse sauce. “So I hear.”

“Where are you hearing all these things?”

“Keith,” they answered in tandem, and Greg rolled his eyes. He sat back and lit a cigarette, his face hardening with the inscrutable expression the others knew was his _I’m full up of your bollocks_ look. Stewart was entirely acquainted with that look and had taken on a sickly expression, as if he was expecting this meeting to equally head into dangerous waters before it even started.

“So where is he?!” Greg demanded.

“Oh there was no answer, so he’s on his way, I expect.”

Greg looked at his watch. “I give him till half-past and that’s it.”

“Shall I get some hors d’oeuvres in, then?” Stewart asked.

“And why didn’t you already?”

Christ Almighty he was peevish...and perhaps peckish too. Stewart left the room again.

“So I s’pose you’re reducing again, Porky?” Greg mocked, but with a smile.

“What are you on about, Spud? My body is my instrument.” Carl laid a hand on his chest, speaking with faux gravitas. “Being fit is my vocation.”

“Oh yes, well,” Greg replied, also speaking in a self-important fashion.

“Y’know I heard a great joke the other day, lemme see, how did it go -”

Keith entered the room, leather-clad and breathing heavily.

“Sorry, sorry, I know I’m late -”

“Speaking of _jokes_ ,” Greg said, and received a glare in answer.

“Don’t you start!” Carl said sharply, looking at each man. “Either of you.”

Stewart came bearing a tray of various nibbles, his expression turning equal parts relieved and cautious.

“Well, we’re all here then. Now who wants some cheese?”

His clients turned and regarded him with incredulous stares.

Keith pointed at Greg with his chin. “What the fuck happened to your hair?”

 

“Y’don’t think it sounds too much like Crimbo then?” Keith asked.

Greg paused in his strumming. “And what if it does? That’s not _their_ sound, it’s _mine_.”

Keith shrugged. “Just don’t want them comparing us to everything that came before.”

Carl giggled - and it still startled the others, even after as many weeks as they’d been hearing it.

“But that’s wot they do, innit? Compare you to everybody else, even if it’s not true!”

“Yeah man, you can’t avoid the whole of musical history!” Greg added, sputtering with laughter.

Keith made a comical face, throwing his arms wide. “All of it irrelevant, I tell you!”

They allowed themselves the laughter, to defuse the tension which had been building between them - the need to, in fact, render all other history irrelevant to what they were doing now. The stakes were high and the demands they put upon themselves and each other were stringent and so their laughter and jokes often leaked out of focused serious moments as steam from a kettle.

“He’s mad,” Carl proclaimed, both his eyes and his smile wide and bright, “simply mad!”

“Look man, it’s a good song, and even if people do say it sounds like Crimson y’can’t deny it’s a good song.”

Keith nodded. “It has potential, yeah, yer little tune there.”

Greg made a huffing sound in mock protest. “Oh yes, much like your precious little suite - isn’t he clever, Porky? Fingers thinks he’s a _composer_!”

Keith pretended he had been stabbed in the heart, staggering and clutching his chest.

“Oooh the troubadour hath wounded me sore, alack!”

Carl shook his head. “Oi, if the tutors at Guildhall could see you two - ‘rubbish’ they’d say!”

“And well they _still_ might,” Keith said, momentarily sobering.

“Which is why we need to get on with it,” Greg replied, “so c’mon then chaps, let’s sort it out.”

“Yeah yeah,” Carl agreed, settling in with a paradiddle on his snare.

“Wait, _troubadour_ , wot does that mean?!” Greg asked, looking daggers across the room. He sometimes thought Keith liked to hide behind his keyboards, throwing out jibes like grenades from within his instrumental bunker.

“Y’got that vibe, man, is wot I mean. The romantic thing.”

“With your little folk songs,” Carl interjected.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Good thing you lot won’t be writing any reviews.”

Carl and Keith exchanged wicked grins.


	2. obsessions and recriminations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now: an argument  
> Then: an acquisition

“How’s the wife then, Spud?” Keith asked, seating himself across from his bandmate. He looked at the pints on the table. “Can I get one of those?”

Stewart pushed his towards Keith. “Have mine, it’s not been touched.”

“Fine, thank you,” Greg replied, his voice chilly as the rarefied air of their current altitude. But he let the expected responsive inquiry hang silent in the wake of his reply, and Keith turned to Carl.

“How’s your game going, Porky?”

“Oh man, I shot a 110 just last week! How’s the fam?”

“They’re good, they’re all good,” Keith replied, looking at Greg, who looked at his glass.

“S’pose we should get right to it, then,” Stewart said, taking a grape from the tray he had placed in the center of the table. “I rang Ahmet on Monday, and -”

“He should be phoning _you_ ,” Greg insisted.

“Oh he _had_ , but I didn’t take his calls, just like you said I shouldn’t.”

“Hold on, why are you doing _his_ bidding, then?” Keith interrupted, gesturing at Greg.

“Look, I have just as much right to say wot -”

“No no no!” Carl cut in, waving his hand like a flag of amnesty. “Stop it, and let Stew finish his statement, right?”

Stewart cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said, nodding at Carl. “As I was saying, I rang Ahmet and told him we are ready to get on with it, and he was amenable to the advance I requested on your behalf, but _only_ on the condition that he gets to hear some demos first.”

“Oh what’s next, a curfew?!” Greg exclaimed.

“Yeah why is he so suspicious?” Carl asked, frowning. “We’ve made him a fair amount of scratch I’d say.”

“P’haps he took your little folk tune as a declaration of intent,” Keith said, and two sets of bright eyes blazed steely and cold, each at the other.

“Envy is wholly unbecoming, Fingers, I’d have thought your mum would have taught ya better than that.”

“But there you were, saying we shouldn’t be diluting our identity, and so I come along and help you out and **then** you went and released it under your own name any road.”

“It was just a novelty!” Carl interjected.

“Novelty or no, it did at least keep us in the minds of everyone.” Greg said, puffing up with a bit of pride.

“And that moon-faced visage of yours on the telly,” Keith cracked.

Greg pushed himself back from the table. “I refuse to speak to you until you are ready to address me with the respect I am due.”

“ _Who are you_?” Keith asked, incredulously. “That fucking Lord of the Manor shite doesn’t fly with me, lad.” He punctuated this assertion with a long drink. “And furthermore -”

Greg stood up and exited the room without another word. A few moments of silence followed.

“Well now you’ve done it then, haven’t you?” Carl asked, gesturing at Keith.

“It isn’t fair!” Keith shouted, smacking his hand on the table. “He says, ‘No we shouldn’t do solo projects, we need to save our energy for the band,’ and then that bloody bastard gets himself a fucking hit single that he _swindled_ me into helping him with!”

“Swindled? Listen to yerself!” Carl shot back, his face contorting with disbelief. “You volunteered!”

“Well that’s all of that, kid, I’m tellin’ ya now. If I can’t do a solo I want to record my concerto with an orchestra for _this_ album. That’s my demand, Stew, mind you write it down.”

Stewart began searching his person for pen and paper.

“Since when do _any_ of us make demands?!”

“Since Spud started getting ideas above his station.”

Carl and Stewart looked at Keith with dumbfounded expressions. Keith grimaced.

“I bloody well meant what I said!”

Carl stood up, throwing his arms wide with frustration.

“You are the fucking limit, Keith, I just -” He gestured wildly as if the way to end his sentence was too outlandish to entertain. “Unbelievable!” he shouted as he left the room.

Keith waited a couple beats after Carl’s departure and then turned to their manager.

“So Stew, shall we retire to the bar then?”

Stewart shook his head with bemusement, still searching for a pen.

==============================

Keith was highly amused to watch this bandmates’ eyes go wide at the sight of his new acquisition, crowding out everything else in his flat.

“Cor blimey!” Carl exclaimed teasingly, “Wot is that thing?”

“It’s a Moog,” Keith answered proudly.

“Yeah but what is it?!”

“It’s a synthesizer.”

In contrast to Carl’s wide-eyed wonder, Greg was rather more reserved, eyeing the mass of electronics with bemused skepticism.

“So _this_ is wot you spent your advance on, eh?”

“Most of it, yeah. But look at it!” he enthused, gesturing towards the bulk of the modular assembly.

“Oh it’s impressive all right, if it actually _works_ , that is. I’ve heard they’re rather temperamental.”

“One might say the same of me, after all.”

Greg awarded him with a smirk.

“So show us wot it does then!” Carl enthused.

“Well...I can’t turn it on. I’ve been having a crack at the manual but it’s a bit dense.”

His guests collapsed with laughter at the admission. Keith scowled, then gave into the mirth as well.

“I’ve got a call into the head man, they’re going to send someone ‘round to show me the ropes.”

“The wires, you mean,” Carl said.

“Quite.”

“Well are you coming to supper?” Greg asked.

“I -”

Carl grinned, turning to Greg. “C’mon then, he wants to be alone with his new love.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah did you tell El she’s got competition?”

Keith pulled a face. “I don’t actually know if congress with an electronic gizmo is legal these days.”

“And what are ya worried about then? Y’can’t even turn it on!” Carl crowed, and they all cracked up again.


	3. methods of discourse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now: a plea  
> Then: a tease

“Two Scorpios, man, how didya ever survive that first conversation?!”

Greg and Carl stood out at the edge of the property Greg was renting, with a view of the Alps in the distance. If one stood in just the right spot the nearby gleam of Lake Geneva could be seen as well. The afternoon sky was daubed with clouds which were heading straight for the lofty granite spires. Greg’s dogs lolled in the grass behind where they stood, having run themselves to exhaustion chasing rabbits across the wide lawn.

“And you only just a Pisces,” Greg teased. “Didn’t that one astrologer say you were the civilizing influence of our arrangement?”

“She did, she did, and I said I wasn’t certain how civilized I was. Then she said, ‘But you don’t like people to shout at each other, Carl,’ and I reckon she was right about that, at least.”

“To answer your question, the first conversation was _musical_ , and we tended to agree. But he’s changing, Porky, don’t you see it?”

Carl hung his head, studied his trainers, frowned.

“We’ve all changed, haven’t we?”

As before, a statement lay within that statement, one which Carl was afraid to express, perhaps.

“You know wot I mean. Yeah, we’ve changed, the world has changed, but he’s going dark, in his head, and I don’t know what to do about that. He wouldn’t let _me_ help, any road.”

“There’s a lot of pressure on all of us.”

Greg sighed, and reached up to flip back the hair which no longer hung there. He grimaced and put his hand down again.

“It’s not just about that. P’haps you don’t see it.”

“I see wot you do but I don’t know that I _interpret_ it the same way y’do, is all.”

“You both always assume I’m thinking the worst.”

“You worry, don’t you? It’s your way.”

“Anyone who _doesn’t_ worry, at least a bit, is a fool. And I am many things, but a fool is not one of them.”

“I didn’t come here for a philosophical debate.”

Greg chuckled to himself, thinking of a Python sketch - _Yes but I came here for an argument!!_

“I’d take you fishing, kid, but the sad truth is it’s rubbish up here. I miss the Test.” Greg sighed again, and Carl could spy the true reason for his tetchy mood.

_He misses his green and pleasant land._

“Look, let’s have a play. No talking - or leastways very little - just _play_. Have that kind of conversation which you **can** get through, and then we move on from there, right?”

“Can he even play, y’think?”

“Well of course he can! He was sober when you saw him.”

“I’d like to believe that, but -”

“Then just do it!”

Greg looked his drummer in the eye, and Carl could always return that direct stare with full equanimity. Carl was ever mindful, thoughtful, and hopeful.

“For your sake, Porky, I will. But mind you, I’m doin’ it because I can’t take that look y’give me when you’re sad. Like when the dogs want to run and I don’t let them."

Carl made a whining sound and said canines looked up attentively, wagging their tails. The mimic grinned and giggled, a sound Greg hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

***************

Eddy could usually count on his comely boss to let him get on with the mixing himself, but in this case Greg was as nervous as a new father regarding this particular group of songs. Their recording methodology had changed, and he desired to personally shepherd it forth into the ears of their public.

“Roll it back, Eddy,” was the order of the day. Of _many_ days, in which Greg slowly and carefully considered all the overdubs and how they needed to fit into the tracks, while Eddy and his assistant made painstaking edits with razor blades and splicing tape. The master reels began to resemble patchworks quilts after a time.

But there was one case in which an obvious edit had **not** been made, and during a listening session a protest was lodged.

“Wait a mo, you can’t leave that in there!” Carl cried, pointing at the Studer which held their precious new recording.

Keith grinned. “It’s funny, we like it!”

“Oh, and where is your fluff then?!” the other demanded.

“C’mon man, it’s a lark, right? So you need some humour running throughout it.” Greg in his producer guise was very reasonable and calm in his justifications.

“I know wot it is - he doesn’t want people thinkin’ that the great Carl Palmer actually fluffs it! Like anyone could tell, kid, ya play so many bloody notes. Fuck, I wouldn’t be able to tell meself.”

“Too many notes?!”

Greg stepped between them, grinning. “He has a point, Porky, but listen now, wot are ya always tellin’ us -”

At this Keith and Greg in unison gave their best approximation of their Brummie drummer.

“- you’ve got to be able to laugh!”

The phrase really did count on the lift at the end of the sentence which always lent Carl’s proclamations a certain sense of merriment.

Carl rolled his eyes then grinned in turn.

“Oh you _finally_ listened to me, did ya?”

“Just in time to use it against ya,” Eddy opined, and faced down a hail of razzing from his clients.

“It’s fucking hilarious, c’mon, don’t be a wet blanket, kid,” Keith chided.

“Roll it again, Eddy,” Carl commanded and once the studio chatter and percussive mishap which comprised the introduction had played he seemed to concede the point.

“It **is** funny, but you know I think I could do that swear much more dramatic -”

“It’s printed!” both Greg and Eddy protested and Carl put his hands up in surrender.

“All right, all right chaps, no need for scolding.”


	4. stirring shit up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now: a conversation post-flight  
> Then: a night at the movies, and what it wrought

On the drive to Bern, Carl considered what he was going to say to Keith. He didn’t like being placed in the position of peacemaker, but not even Stewart was inclined, at this point, to pour oil upon the turbulent sea of their relationship.

“Let them _really_ fight it out,” was the suggestion proffered.

“Stew! None of us are going to _punch_ anyone, that would be hazardous to our profession.”

A pause. “Well sure, s’pose you’re right. Although Greg _did_ learn to spar, after all. But - and I’m sorry to tell you this, Carl - you lot aren’t paying me _enough_ to mediate your interpersonal relations.”

A sigh. “Yeah okay.”

So there he was, bounding after each of them to attempt reasonable discourse. And each could be stubborn, but Keith was mercurial...his mood could turn black quicker than a storm. And yet, Keith made him laugh, and if Carl could be said to have any genuine affection for his bandmate, that was the reason.

“A laugh would be a lovely thing right now,” he muttered to himself as he traversed the carpark of the airport, looking up at the sky over the landing strip. It was a fine day, and he imagined Keith was up there enjoying it. Inquires were made inside, then a wait in the pilots de-briefing room for the barnstormer to reappear. Carl understood the need to push oneself beyond one’s limitations, but flying a plane seemed a rather precarious way of achieving it. He did admire Keith for having the discipline to make it through the process of obtaining a pilot’s license.

When Keith entered the room, flight log in hand, he stopped short to see Carl.

“H’llo, Captain!” Carl called out cheerily with a wave.

Keith rolled his eyes and grinned. “If you wanted a ride you’re too late, Porky. My hire slot is expired for the day.”

“No no - just came for a chat.”

Keith sat down across from Carl and carefully filled in the information for his flight. Carl remained calm, knowing this was likely a stall, but then again Keith took flying a plane perhaps more seriously than, say, flying a piano - even as the latter was just as risky in its’ own way.

Finally Keith made a noisy scrawl of a signature and set aside the book. “Why would you want to talk to me, Carl? Are you worried I’m going to do something terribly drastic to injure our arrangement? Has the Fat Man been putting ideas in yer head?”

“That’s not sporting, Fingers.”

“There’s no gentleman’s rules remaining, kid. Even you in your wide-eyed optimism should understand **that**.”

“I understand that we have to get on with this, and I thought we might manage it without killing one another.”

Keith laughed, genuinely amused. “Only just.”

Carl smiled ruefully. “Let’s have a play, hmm? Rocky’s got our gear set up at the studio, we can just bash something out. Whatever you like.”

“Y’can’t solve _everything_ by having a play.”

“I’m not asking for that! I’m not even asking for you to pull yourself out of whatever funk you’re in - because you’re _always_ broody. I just want us to fuckin’ get on with it!”

“I’m not stopping _either_ of you from doing whatever it is that you will.”

“You’re being difficult just to be difficult, because y’can. And what does that prove?”

“That I’m a cunt, of course. You’ll get no argument from me, kid.”

“Do you honestly want people to believe the worst of you all the time?”

Keith stood up and in that moment, the daylight through the wide windows revealed the fatigue in his face. “They _do_ , and they _will_ , so it doesn’t matter.”

Carl rose, staring fiercely into those shadowed eyes. “It matters to me!”

Keith smirked. “Opportunistic self-interest, Porky. We’re not mates, so your concern is directly related to how well I’ll function. Wind me up and watch me go. So please don’t pantomime otherwise, because I’m not stupid. I’m a great many things but -” 

Carl raised a hand. “Yes I’ve heard this before.”

“But you wanna know how much I’m willing to sacrifice to this grand enterprise?” Keith pulled up his t-shirt to expose his torso - a long scar puckered the skin along the left side.

“Wot is that?!” Carl exclaimed. “Is that from the Hammond?”

“That one, yeah. Ribbon controller gave me a few others. So I’m _devoted_ to entertaining people on behalf of this organization, to the point of personal injury.” 

Carl raised his eyebrows. “You are devoted to hurting yerself, which just _happens_ to entertain people, I’d say.”

“We all love bloodsport, kid,” Keith proclaimed, exiting the room and leaving his drummer just as frustrated as he had been to start with.

***************

It had begun - a few months before they were to meet the great man - with Keith’s obsessive playing of the title track of that shockingly-titled album, an affront to jazz traditionalists who likely wondered what the hell Miles was playing at.

“It sounds like it belongs in a weird film, doesn’t it? All that sharp reverb.”

And he played it **so loud** , Greg demanded to be put on another floor everywhere they stayed. He had begun dreaming of some surrealistic landscape where the soundtrack was the crystalline burble of the Rhodes, those sharp bright shards of trumpet, the ominous shuffle of the drums, the way the bass spoken low and threatening.

The comfort of willing bodies offered only further population for these nightmares, where women sucked the life out of him and he woke gasping, just short of screaming. He had scrawled _bitches crystal_ across a piece of blue-lined notebook paper one night, but nothing else, and even a storey below he could still hear that wild music. It played without recourse to his sanity, it seemed. Even Miles’ whispery rasp of a voice which could be heard between some of the changes, it was the voice of a mysterious figure on the horizon, beckoning him to ruin.

And **then**...he was spurred to further imaginings by a night at the movies…

 

“Well gents, it’s official: we’re snowed in.”

A collective groan rose from the mass of bodies standing before Stewart in the lobby.

“If I have to spend one more day in this hotel I’m going to murder _everyone_ ,” Keith declared dramatically.

“Do you promise?” Greg sniped.

“Starting with you, Spud.”

“The airport is closed, the highway is closed, there’s no help for it I’m afraid.”

Rocky entered from outside, shaking snow from his extremities. “Lads! The flicks are open just down the street, it’s a corker of a double-feature!”

“Wot's showin?'” Carl asked, perking up.

“ _Cry of the Banshee_ and _Bloodsuckers_.”

“I don’t like the scary ones,” Magoo said quietly. “They give me nightmares, they do.”

The other members of the crew present razzed and ridiculed him but he remained steadfast in his refusal to come along. Everyone else bundled up and trooped down the street to Sonny & Eddy’s for their Night Frights weekend billing, with Stewart shelling out enough money to cover not only the cost of tickets, but for management to turn a blind eye to the libations the boys had brought along. He had chuckled at the sight of Keith trudging along in the snow in his high boots and fur-trimmed leather jacket with a bottle of Courvoisier in tow like a rock star St. Bernard.

The assemblage invaded the theatre and took up three full rows in the center. Greg shed his full-length fur coat and looked around, waiting for someone to hand him something. A joint was proffered moments later, along with a box of popcorn. He settled in, feet up on the seat in front of him, smoking and musing on the last argument with his bete noir, his own mood perhaps as dark as that which he was about to watch.

“It’s important, yeah okay, but do you have to blare it every fucking night?!”

“There’s not even a name for wot it is!” Keith brandished the album cover in front of Greg’s face. Greg angrily knocked it away. “Look at it!”

“I know wot it says!”

“No, I don’t mean the title. Look at what is _above_ the title.”

Greg took the cover and read: “Directions in music by Miles Davis.”

“He’s tellin’ us this is a journey, it’s more than just some label people put on music so they can understand it. You can’t _understand_ this music, you can only _feel_ it. It exists, and that’s enough to know.”

Keith so desperately wanted to be taken seriously, wanted to be an innovator just like Miles, and Greg suspected that as much as Keith loved what he was hearing on _Bitches Brew_ , he also loathed _himself_ that much more for not being able to compose anything even remotely like it, although it was Greg’s opinion that some of the album’s heavier textures and themes were lifted straight from what was happening in rock n’roll these days. Miles was no doubt keeping an eye on everything going on in music. Greg had grown impatient with Keith’s inability to just relax and enjoy the ride - he knew what it was like to be determined, but Keith was driven: by some dark demon which Greg imagined was perched on the other’s shoulder with claws dug in, whispering things like _they’ll never respect you_ and _you’re just not good **enough** , are you?_

“It’s a disclaimer,” Greg cracked, smiling so as to convey a jest, not an insult. “He’s sayin’ to all those jazzbos, ‘you think I’m a gone cat **now** , just wait till ya hear this!’”

Keith frowned for just a moment, then seemed to make a decision to give into Greg’s gesture of understanding. He smiled very slightly.

“I think it’s a complete _sod ya_ to all those jazzbos.”

Greg played along, continuing to smile. “Yeah, I reckon so.”

“Doesn’t it inspire you? Doesn’t it make you want to reach above what you know?”

“It’s wild, man, I won’t deny it. But whether or not it’s going to be inspire me I dunno yet.”

Keith stared at him - stared and found him wanting, Greg suspected - but then he shrugged, ruffling his perfect shag and leaning in to touch Greg’s hair. Greg tried to step back but Keith gripped his shoulder tightly.

“Gonna have to start calling you Veronica, y’know, if you let your hair get any longer.”

Greg blinked, not entirely certain what Keith was truly meaning to express. Not affection, certainly, but neither malice, apparently.

“Who?”

“The **other** esteemed Lake, man - haven’t you ever seen _The Blue Dahlia_?”

“Oh **her** \- that wasn’t even her name, my mum said.”

Keith shook his head, his smile turned mocking. “Forget it, man.”

And now, watching the swirling blue haze above his head in the light from the projector as various titillating and tawdry coming attractions were shown, Greg was beginning to suspect that _none_ of them understood each other, in any fashion. That it was just a coincidence they were able to play together at all. And if so, then what did that mean, exactly?

The words he saw on the screen to preface the first movie appeared an act of synchronicity -  
_They can only shriek, shriek  
out of tune…_

Terry Gilliam’s animated title sequence elicited a spirited reply from the crowd -  
“Freaky, man!” “Oi! I think that dragon is lookin’ at me!”  
\- and Greg smirked, because he found it rather more humorous than frightful. But the movie itself was disturbing in some ways, even as it was melodramatic and lurid, the visions of a witches’ sabbat and burials, torture and violence.

_What if there is a power we know nothing of?_

Greg bolted upright in his seat, gasping at the screen.

“I need a pencil,” he hissed, “and some paper! **Now**.”

These too were passed along to him and, as onscreen the sidhe enacted its’ revenge upon its’ oppressors, Greg scribbled down phrases, truly _inspired_ to craft a commentary upon his own nightmares. If anyone spied him in the semi-illuminated darkness, they would note he was smiling, albeit in a somewhat grim fashion.

Greg _hated it_ when Keith was right.


	5. exposure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now: showing what is not meant  
> Then: meaning what is not shown

“Emo, my son! Have ya learnt to yodel yet?”

Keith grimaced down the phone at his jolly interrogator on the other end, all the way back in Blighty.

“Spud might get jealous if I developed any ambitions in that area.”

It was a day in which he felt the sky was looming, like a line from a fairy story he’d once read to Aaron... _the sky comes down close_. One would imagine the sky was so very high at this altitude but some days it seemed like he could reach up and touch it, and it would feel cold like plaster. Some days everything felt unreal, and he a fictional player in an elaborately long melodrama.

Mark laughed and nattered on about what people were up to: what they were wearing, who was fucking who, who had gotten the toss for drunken nonsense, all the things one could discuss over the phone when the distance between presented itself as a watery echo on the line. The summit of that aspirational Olympus upon which Keith found himself was unsettling, and crumbling. _He_ was the echo, within his own body.

“And of course I’ve seen your very best side now,” the other teased.

“You and every-bloody-body else in the world, it seems,” Keith groused. “Judging from the number of calls and cables and mocking missives. But I’ve nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

“Certainly not, lad. How did the others take it?”

“Carl thought it was hysterical. I didn’t hear from Greg, naturally -”

“ _Naturally_.”

“ - but I suspect he thought I was just getting him back for that pictorial he was in, y’know? The one with Aussie Joe. Gorgeous Greg in his fighting trunks, hammin’ it up like a matinee idol, and all the ladies in attendance doth swoon to behold his fetching form. As if I’d care to flash my bits in public. As if I couldn’t pull any bird I wanted - anytime, anywhere.”

“That would be petty even for you.”

“I had no idea the paps were staking out Geneva, fookin’ hell!”

“Well now you’re truly infamous, Emo, and sometimes that’s all we can hope for.”

As always, when the call was concluded, Keith poured another drink and thought for a while about his ambitions and inclinations, and how they always seemed to be at odds with each other.

 

 

The young woman before him appeared possessed of a natural confidence, and in her jeans, t-shirt and trainers seemed not inclined towards the typical decorative instincts of other girls her age. Greg had referred to her as _a cool chick, man, but she has to be tough for that business because it’s all blokes_. But she was doing her best to be professional - and so Stewart afforded her the same courtesy.

“As I told you, Miss Goldsmith -”

“Oh call me, Lynn, please.”

“Right, Lynn - Greg said he was very impressed with your organizational skills and such. We’ve been considering producing a long-form documentary, you see. We’ve done the short documentary and also the concert film, and we want something which truly does justice to the group. To showcase them as individuals as well as a collective. A full theatrical release, like what you did for Grand Funk.”

“Yeah I watched the copy of that short you sent over - it was interesting but kind of, I guess, fragmented.”

“Right. Some of the edits were questionable, I concede.”

“And that voiceover was just, I dunno, _weird_ , I guess.”

“We want something a great deal more formal and comprehensive.”

“Has anyone written a treatment?”

“No, we were rather hoping you might be persuaded. You have a lot of experience in that area, I take it.”

She looked skeptical. “Are you saying you’ll give me full creative control and access?”

“Your work speaks for itself, I can only hope doing so would mean great results.”

“I find it’s best to discuss the budget first.”

_Americans_ , Stewart thought, _always so blunt_.

“If you’d care to draft a preliminary budget, using your past efforts as a guide, then we can plan from there. And also perhaps a period of observation, to see how you mesh with the lads.”

Lynn smirked. “I already know how I get along with Greg, so yeah, I guess I can tag along - if you can afford me.”

Stewart smiled. “Greg _insists_ that we can.”

 

Lynn had spent time alone with each of her would-be subjects, talking about anything which came to mind, and it was certainly easy for three men who had an eye for attractive women to give her their time and attention. But she tried to keep it light, and laddish, and easy. She had plenty of stories of her own to tell, and they all enjoyed her perspective on rock n’roll. Greg, interestingly enough, appeared no longer focused on seducing her - as he had been when they first met - but rather wanting to know all the ins-and-outs of the movie business, of which she knew only a part of the entire enterprise. She preferred talking about the mechanics of the music industry, and was pleasantly surprised to realize how savvy he was about business - right down to calculating per diems for every major city in the world.

“You’ve got to watch these jokers every moment,” he counseled as they walked between hedgerows deep within the wilds of his property. “Because the one thing you can always assume is that someone will rob you blind if you’re not paying attention. I’ve seen it far too many times. S’why we hired Stew, y’know - we could teach him to do business _our_ way.”

“ _Your_ way, you mean,” she said, smiling at him.

He shrugged, modest, then flashing that grin which she was certain enabled him to claim the heart of any female who beheld it - and maybe some of the men too. 

“ _Mostly_ my way, I s’pose. Someone’s got to look out for us.”

“It just seems at odds with who you are otherwise - this romantic guy who writes beautiful songs and always looks like a gentleman.”

He turned the full light and heat and weight of that smile upon her - and given her many experiences to this point with musicians and men and what they wanted from her - Lynn tried to steel herself against the onslaught. _Do what’s right for the project, not what he wants you to do. Do **not** promise anything._ But she melted just the slightest, recalling the hot day in which they had met, how his eyes had avidly followed her as she worked with her crew, marshaling a small army to provide all the Second Unit filming to be done at the concerts. How he had smiled much the same every time their eyes met. How she’d had to stop what she was doing when he soundchecked a bit of the song which she imagined no woman could resist when they heard it - and he fucking well knew it. He was not the magnet but the steel...a force of nature.

“I _am_ a romantic, it’s true. I really hope you’ll show that, because some people have attempted to obscure this fact, trivializing it as if I don’t have an appeal all my own.”

She smiled in turn, which evolved into a breathy laugh. “Don’t I know it.”

The bright smile remained even as his look became more intimately knowing. “That you do, my girl.”

Her street-smart inner conscience spoke up just then: _And that’s exactly why he hired you._

 

Lynn had considered that each of the guys was attractive in his own right - and though they wouldn’t admit it, likely an important part of their worldwide appeal - thus, Carl was the human equivalent of sheer exuberance: from his adorable smile to his confident stride to the way in which he encountered everything with curiosity and optimism, even those situations which he expected would be disappointing in some way.

“Sure,” he’d told her over lunch at a vegetarian restaurant he favored on South Molton Street, filled with beautiful women as it was right down the road from every major modeling agency in London, “it can be a drag sometimes when we’re all arguing, but the argument itself is never a bad thing. How else can ya come to the best decision if ya don’t defend yer own position?”

_Spoken like a man who’s done a lot of arguing_ , she thought.

Meeting up with him that morning - greeting Lynn with a cheery “H’llo!” and bouncing down the steps of his Notting Hill _pied-à-terre_ \- she was struck by the force of his personality. No part of this tripod had a weak limb, and though he was _only the drummer_ , it was clear to her that Carl thought of himself as something beyond that even as he embodied the typical personality traits: an easy immediate humor and sensible grounded viewpoint in most things.

“What’s your favorite drummer joke?” she asked him as they made the trip to the dojo where Carl was studying karate.

“I like jokes,” Carl replied with a smile, “but I’m not a joke, y’know wot I mean?”

His expression had turned serious and Lynn nodded solemnly to show she had understood.

 

Lynn’s encounter with Keith was in his element: meaning, the dark interior of his local, where he could cradle a glass of wine, puff a cigar, and amuse her with a narrative of mishaps he’d suffered onstage over the years in the service of his flamboyant performance style.

“S’pose you thought I’d have you see me at the piano, but that’s a bit stuffy, eh?”

Lynn nodded but knew that it was likely because Keith found easier to talk in general with a few belts in him. She knew more than a few people like that. She sipped at her own glass of wine and asked about how he had decided on doing things with keyboards no one else had ever thought of.

“It’s all about the chicks, y’know - how many blokes have told ya _that_ , then?”

“All of them.”

He laughed and poured more wine. “Ah, we’re so predictable aren’t we. Ridiculous and predictable. But it allows for the other side, doesn’t it? If I wasn’t jumping over my Hammond I wouldn’t get to write the things I want to, and how fucking boring would that be? My old man had it right - you’ve got to be popular if you want to get anywhere.”

“You wouldn’t want to be a longhair then?”

Keith grinned. “Darling, I _am_ a longhair, just one who thinks a bit beyond that whole scene.”

Lynn professed to not knowing much about classical music and this allowed Keith to deliver a lecture, though it was far more entertaining than she thought it might be, as he confessed that the composers of those long-ago eras were just as outrageous and fucked-up as any of his rock musician peers.

“It’s the music, y’know. Drives you mad and makes you sane.”

“How can it do both?”

“Dunno, it just does.”

“Oi Emo!” the barman called from across the pub. “Play us yer concerto why don’t ya?”

Keith rolled his eyes and called out, “No I’m not playin’ ya my fuckin' concerto!”

“Play somethin’ then will ya, lad? It’s feckin’ dismal in here of an evenin.’”

“Perhaps it’s yer clientele then!”

Lynn reached over and placed a hand upon his. “This chick wants you to play some of that longhair music...please?”

Keith’s mouth took on a slow smirk, and he downed the remainder of his wine. “I’ll do it ‘cause yer cool, but you have to buy the next round.”

Lynn laughed. “I’m good for it, Fingers.”


	6. stagecraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now: high concept  
> Then: low comedy

“Risk is an inherent fact of life!” Keith insisted, smacking the table for emphasis. “Without risk, wot the fuck are ya gonna do?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being sensible in certain aspects of one’s life,” Greg countered calmly. “What you’re suggesting is beyond risky.”

“You’re attached to all that _stuff_ and wot does it get ya? It’s just an anchor, and an anchor holds you in the same place forever.”

“You might drift _a bit_ , actually,” Carl broke in, smirking.

“I lost everything,” Keith went on, pausing for a drink, “ _everything_. So I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

“You’re exaggerating just a tad, I reckon.” Greg countered. “Nobody died, so you’ve only got a particular experience with loss, haven’t you.”

“I lost my music, man, and that’s a fucking death to me. To _me_.”

Greg threw up his hands. “All right, fuck’s sake, I get it! If you were to assume **all** the risk then that would be one thing. But you’re not, and that is the truth. You can’t expect us to agree just because you want us to.”

The debate went on, and Keith became more belligerent defending his position, fueled by the wine he’d been drinking steadily all afternoon - it had a cumulative effect, but generally not until after the playing had finished for the day and talk turned to future business matters.

“We’re not going to make money with this tour, so we might as well not make money the most interesting way we can. Nobody else is doing this -”

“Because it’s fuckin’ lunacy!” Greg replied.

“Now wait a mo,” Carl interjected, addressing Keith, “weren’t you the guy who was always sayin’ wot a hassle it is to use an orchestra at all? Much less to take on the road?”

“It is, I fully admit it. But it’s something we need to do. Otherwise we’re going fuckin’ nowhere.”

“That is your _opinion_ ,” Greg declared, his voice turning frosty and imperious. “You can’t speak for all of us.”

“And I bloody well wouldn’t care to,” Keith concluded, as he and his bottle departed the scene.

Silence followed for a matter of moments, each of them also imbibing and considering the conversation.

“He’s still taking it so hard,” Carl murmured.

“The booze isn’t helping that, y’know. Rocky said -”

“I know wot Rocky said!” Carl exclaimed. “But think of it from his side, man. How heavy that was, wouldn’t you have taken it hard too?”

Greg shrugged. “Yeah, I s’pose. But I never had much to begin with, so I’d start over again. It’s an excuse for him to wallow. He does that, it’s like I told you before -”

“Leave it,” Carl said, surrendering his position, “since you don’t want to listen to wot I’m sayin.’”

“I **am** listening! Just because I don’t agree with you -”

“It’s not that t’all. You don’t want to consider the possibility that he’s in serious pain.”

“And wot if he is? Wot could we possibly do about that?!”

And there it was, they both knew, another circus animal in the room: the arrangement which worked very well when one overlooked the human element embedded within it.

 

“Wot is that?” Keith asked from his side of the rehearsal room.

“Wot?” Greg replied, momentarily pausing in his strumming and humming.

“What yer playin,’ I mean. It sounds familiar.”

“‘Old Blue,’ we learnt it in school, one of those folky tunes.”

“Ah yeah,” Carl said with a grin, “ _I had a dog and his name was Blue_ -”

“Suitable subject for a landed gentry such as yourself,” Keith jibed.

“I like songs about dogs,” Greg declared with a smirk.

“Oooh, write a symphony about a dog!” Carl exclaimed, grinning at Keith, “That would be groovy.”

Keith chuckled. “A heroic sort of dog, eh? One who saves the damsel fair and slays the dragon.”

Greg did not comment, continued playing the song to himself.

“So...are ya just noodling, or -”

“Or wot?”

“Or are ya wantin' to play it?”

“In the set? I dunno, I mean -”

“Well,” Carl cut in, looking ponderous, “maybe in the middle of something else, y’know? It could be its’ own movement, right?”

Keith grimaced but then his expression moved on to a thoughtful contemplation. “Hmm, yeah that would make sense, one supposes. That would be a pisser, eh? Folky interlude in the middle of a massive rondo or something.”

“Yeah yeah, I like it!” Carl enthused.

Greg laughed. “And now, here’s an moldy oldie from the Appalachian songbook!”

“And then I’d set fire to the Hammond,” Keith concluded.

“No no, absolutely no fire!” Carl yelled. “The cannons are quite enough.”

“He’s still traumatized, poor lad,” Keith surmised, tipping a wink at Greg.

“What are ye worried 'bout, kid? It’s the Moog that’s gonna blow up, and you can just take cover behind yer gong!”

“Not on purpose!” Keith declared.

“Well, it’s never _on purpose_ , is it?” Greg shot back, and they all laughed.

“I didn’t sign up to dodge debris, I don’t care how entertaining it is!”

“Aww, look at Porky, he’s feelin' his oats again,” Greg said indulgently.

“Look kid, yer gettin’ a bleedin’ eight-minute solo, wot’s a little shrapnel between friends, eh?”

Carl looked at his grinning bandmates and shook his head emphatically once more, his long dark hair swaying. “No bloody way!”

“Let’s get ‘im a crash helmet, that’s fair,” Keith suggested.

Carl stood up from behind his kit, “I’m not jokin’ ‘bout this now, I mean it!”

“Well if you ain’t got the stones -” Keith said, giving him a hard look and then just as quickly losing his composure with braying laughter at Carl’s earnest panic.

“Fer chrissakes, he’s just a boy!” Greg exclaimed, equally mirthful.

Carl gave in, laughing and making the reversed V in answer to his tormentors.

“Musical hall comedy, perhaps,” Keith said, looking thoughtful again. “Let’s try this then -”

And they carried on, without explosions...for now.


	7. hard labour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now: of mountains and men  
> Then: of disaster and dis-ease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay, the muse has been fickle of late.

During the sessions of their tentative reunion Keith often felt the need to go outside the studio, as the atmosphere turned claustrophobic and oppressive at times, and on one particular day he stood staring up at the Rocher de Naye, its’ peak lost in gathering clouds. The slow progress of the tourist tram was a small shining bead moving up its’ massive flank. Carl had followed him outside, breathing deeply in a way which would suggest he had been trapped underwater.

“I wonder, what is it like to be so enormous and awe-inspiring,” Keith murmured.

Carl glanced at him, with sunnies on one couldn’t tell whether the man was jesting or having a moment of philosophical inquiry. He followed Keith’s gaze to the mountain.

“I think a giant rock gives sod-all to what anyone thinks of it - not that it thinks t’all, one would assume.”

“Oh ya never can tell, kid,” Keith said, tapping his forehead. ‘Sides, it’s not just one rock, y’know, it’s the movement of lots of rocks.”

“It’s too early in the day for this!” Carl protested, teasing but also confused.

“And yet here we are. Here I am, ‘cause you asked me to.”

Carl looked down from their privileged perch, he could see people on the walkaways going in and out of the casino - some glittering and urbane, others decidedly ordinary, as well as some unwashed denim-clad kids likely looking for Funky Claude’s Bar. He was becoming annoyed with Keith’s mood, as one might become annoyed at the appearance of a raincloud during a picnic, or whilst sailing upon calm waters.

“It’s not hard labour, y’know. Fact it’s quite easy, if you let it be.”

“Ah but that’s just it: y’can’t just let things happen, can ya? Can’t leave it all to fate.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together.

Carl stood rocking on the soles of his feet for a moment, thinking of something to say which wasn’t a scold or a quip.

“Apt place for us to be, come to think of it. We’re gambling everything we have on this.”

“Let me ask you something, when you face someone to fight -”

“It’s called a match, just like in footie.”

“All right then, a match. Do you ever **not** try as best y'can?”

“No of course not!” Carl exclaimed. “What’s the point if ya don’t try?”

Keith nodded and smiled and spread his hands out. Carl rolled his eyes and laughed.

 

"Is the air con on?" Carl asked, his inquiry closer to the whining of a child, turning a glance toward the glaringly bright Tokyo afternoon beyond the window of the suite.

"I reckon," Magoo replied.

"Doesn't feel like it." Carl blew upwards at his fringe. "I'm bloody melting!"

"Let me ask you something," Greg began, pointing his cigarette at Stewart, "why did they fail to inform you it was going to be monsoon season?"

"I don't know!" Stewart exclaimed. "I asked the promoters for some dates to book and this is what they gave me."

"Why should they care," Keith cracked, "they have their money."

"They're gonna lose money if they have to cancel shows," Greg retorted.

"We're gonna lose money, ya mean."

"And they're bloody well gonna have to cover for it if we do!" Greg declared. "I"ll see to that!"

"I'm more afraid of the kids than the promoters," Carl opined, "after wot happened at the airport."

"Audiences here are supposed to be polite and well-mannered," Stewart assured them, "that's what they told me."

"Oh ya know how kids are when they hear rock n'roll," Keith said, "and you can bloody well print that, Chris." He grinned at their journalistic shadow seated in a corner of the room, who nodded in reply.

"It's not even _air_ here," Carl continued to whine, "only different states of water."

At that Greg and Keith cracked up and in doing so, the rest of the occupants felt allowed to do the same.

"Wot?!" Carl demanded, comically wide-eyed.

"I don't know," Greg sputtered, overcome, "it's just the way y'said it," and the two began laughing even louder.

"Jet lag," Stewart summarized.

"And saki," Keith interjected.

"And this bloody humidity!" Carl concluded.

The laughter died away and the sighing began.

"Wot is that you’re wearing?" Greg asked, looking over at Keith.

"Kansai gave me this," Keith replied, plucking at his colorful t-shirt, "he sells hundreds in his shop."

"It's giving me a headache," the other muttered before taking a drag.

"Oi, if it's good enough for Bowie it's good enough for me."

"I like Kansai's clothes," Carl said with a grin. "they're cool. But he didn't give me a t-shirt!"

"That's because your name doesn't start with a 'K.'" Keith informed him.

"I think he fancies you," Greg opined dryly, arching his eyebrows. "Wants to dress you up."

"Well I'm a very compelling personality, y'know," Keith countered.

"Are you now."

"Oh yes, but not to you 'cause you've got no taste."

"Sod off," Greg said, but he sounded more bored than annoyed.

"Well chaps I s'pose this might be the wrong time to ask, but -"

"Yes?" his three subjects managed to ask in unison.

At that point in his career Chris considered himself unfazed by rock star behavior but that gave him a start.

_Bloody hell they're unnerving when they all gang up on you._

"Well, I wondered if we couldn't all have a photo together. For the article, I mean."

All eyes turned to the onlooker who had yet to say anything, sitting cross-legged on the floor checking his equipment.

"Well Bob, wot ya say?" Keith inquired. "Up for a portrait then?"

"Sure," Robert answered, setting the viewfinder of his Nikon upon Keith and Greg, "how 'bout we have a bit of scenery too then?"

"Go outside?!" Carl cried.

"A contemplative moment in a harrowing tour," Greg jibed, and Keith cracked up.

"It's very much the thing to pose in one's kimonos and such," Chris said, in an effort to belie the prank he was attempting to pull.

The collective gaze fell upon said kimonos draped across a nearby divan, as their suites were furnished in the Western style, specifically for visiting dignitaries and the like. They were all pearl-white silk, lavishly embroidered with dragons and flowers.

"I don't look good in white," Keith said, frowning.

"But they gave us all the same kind, so wot else can we do?" Carl replied.

"I think they're smashing," Greg said.

"Of course you do, Mr. White Knight, but I'd prefer something with a bit more color."

"I believe you've got that covered, " Greg retorted and Stewart waved his hands in the air.

"Enough, go have a snap and then we've got that tea ceremony viewing or whatever it is."

"Y'think they'd make me a builder's tea?" Carl asked with a mischievous grin. "I sure could use it."

They descended into the bowels of the hotel in order to use the service egress, as the foyer and entrance were clogged with eager fans. A hired car and their interpreter were waiting for them. Chris attempted to sit up front with the driver, but Robert beat him to the shotgun seat. His subjects groaned audibly the moment they stepped into the sunlight, acting as though it were poison.

“Why’s it so fuckin’ bright?” Carl demanded. “Japan’s not even close to the equator!”

“He’s such a learned chap, is our Carl,” Keith quipped.

The slow crawl to the Chiyoda ward was mostly silent as they all stared out the windows, stupefied by the humidity and the intensity of the afternoon light, even with the aid of polarized lenses.

“Are we taking the tour?” Greg asked in a jaded monotone, receiving shrugs from the others.

“I don’t reckon we have time for the full tour,” Magoo opined, and then the interpreter explained that they were being granted special access to the East Gardens. They all nodded to acknowledge the expected deference.

“It’s funny how cities are cities, even when they’re different,” Keith said. “Old and new, just like London.”

“Progress will have its’ way, eh?” Chris asked, receiving more shrugs.

The confluences of the smog and neon - even in daylight - with the grandeur of ancient edifices and tranquil austere decor made the landscape incredibly fascinating to even their well-traveled eyes and the closer they came to the Imperial Palace the more excitedly they absorbed the landscape, marveling at how much could be constructed in such a compacted area.

“It’s all numbers, didya know that, Carl?” Greg commented. “The streets don’t even have names, it’s all on a grid and everything is numbered.”

“Must be a nightmare for anyone who isn’t Japanese,” Keith murmured.

Traffic grew heavier as they queued to drive into the grounds of the Imperial Palace.

“Bloody tourists!” Carl muttered, drawing snickers from his bandmates.

Once situated within the grounds of the palace and then onto the park, their interpreter keeping up a steady stream of commentary from the tour guide, the party walked through the garden as if moving through a sticky substance, sweating all the while.

“Fookin’ ‘ell,” Keith slurred, wiping the back of his neck. “How does one survive in this?”

“People always manage to find a way to outlive difficult situations,” Chris quipped, and Greg gave him a sidelong glance with just a bit of a smirk.

They found a suitable spot and waited for Robert to take a light reading and frame the shot.

“Chris you sit on that rock, right? There’s a good chap.”

The boys donned their kimonos, noticing they weren’t being observed in particular, just another group of tourists appropriating a bit of Far East exotica.

“If this takes more than five minutes I’m going to faint, I know I’m going to faint.”

“Fuck’s sake, Carl, don’t be an infant!”

“Sunnies off, gents.”

“Wot? No!” Greg declared.

“Want a nice photo, don’t you? Need to see yer eyes if you please.”

“I’ll squint, I don’t look right when I squint.”

“Then try not to, eh?”

Chris attempted to keep his pose still and expression serene, but the situation was just too ridiculous for words as the whining among all his subjects increased.

“This silk is beginning to stain,” Greg commented, “that won’t be too photogenic one supposes.”

“Everything is getting blurry, I swear on my life t’is!” Carl was sounding truly frantic.

“Yeah please, can we wrap it up? I truly feel a retch coming on,” Keith said.

“Be still then! If y’can manage to be still for one more minute then I can get a decent snap.”

A moment of blessed silence followed, though Chris could hear the belabored breathing of the others, and he wondered what Robert was actually seeing through his viewfinder. Was it a simple pose of a rock band and a journalist? Or something beneath the facade which displayed the cracks in the foundation.

A growing murmur reached them through the light and the heat and all looked beyond their locale to behold a group of teenagers approaching.

“Well I guess that’s it then,” Robert surmised, and quickly packed his camera before they dashed off.

“I don’t think I can leg it,” Carl croaked. “Just leave me behind, lads, and tell my mum I love her.”

“Oh no, you’re not getting out that easy,” Greg growled, and grabbed Carl’s arm.


	8. the velvet straightjackets of idols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now: narrative fancies  
> Then: appetites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my thanks to everyone who has read this, I truly value your appreciation and your patience with the muse which drags its' feet.

Keith eyed the books, videotapes, and canisters of film heaped upon the lounge’s black lacquered table with skepticism.

“Wot the fuck is this about, then?”

“Research!” he was assured with an enthusiastic rejoinder by Pete. “We need to sink into that swashbuckling mindset doncha know.”

The other laughed wryly. “As if we don’t know how to lay waste to a town!”

“A whole town?” Carl replied from the other end of the lounge. “I should think that’s a bit ambitious even for us.”

“Well it’s an attitude, isn’t it?” Keith said, and indeed he almost looked the part in knee-high leather boots, tight faded jeans and a flowy white shirt. “That swagger which says ‘Yeah I’ll take that, and that, and you too sweet lass!’”

“Well yes, that’s part of it, certainly,” Pete admitted. He had to internally confess that the _idea_ of being a pirate was romantic but from what he had been reading, the _reality_ of it was rather grimy and grim.

“Wot’s the other part, then?”

 _Christ, when Emo was on the path he never let up._ Pete much preferred being a creative partner to Greg, who blithely let him proffer whatever poetic ideas he might have about what would work with the music. There were certain things Greg preferred to sing about, of course, but driven as much by desperation as inspiration he did not jibe his collaborator much as his bandmate did.

“It’s adventure, it’s riches, it’s lust, it’s freedom,” he explained. “It’s the same reason you’ve got those biker chaps in the States riding about, they would rather be rogues than in some straightlaced proper life, y’know?”

“Here’s to that!” Carl exclaimed, raising his glass aloft.

“It’s a fantasy,” Keith proclaimed, but he was smiling. “That’s wot we’re selling.”

“Well...yeah,” Pete said, confused because it was such an obvious observation. He felt as though he was being set up somehow. 

Keith picked up a nearby sheet of paper bearing lyrics, reading aloud from it.  
_Come aboard my pretty boys_  
_I will take you and make you_  
_everything you’ve ever dreamed._  
“Well that’s proper recruitment, one supposes. You and Spud would certainly want only the _pretty boys_ , wouldn’t you?”

“None prettier than us, naturally,” Greg answered, entering the lounge. “Now, who wants to watch _The Buccaneer_?”

“Wot’s next, a talkin' parrot?” Keith asked.

“That might actually be helpful,” Greg said, deadpan, “but until then you’ll do.”

The room erupted in laughter and Keith stared down his nemesis, smiling that smile which admitted no defeat, but allowed that it was an apt jest. Pete considered that it was the usual state of things between those two.

 

The birth of music could be glorious...and painful.

But there was a high there, certainly. And they were chasing it, always, each in their own way.

Keith desired to hear what was in his head inhabiting the outside world, it would emerge even if he had to play till his hands ached. Sometimes he might compromise if the phrase would not fully resolve, and trust that Carl and Greg might lead it to where it needed to be.

But he drove them mad when it was proffered only bit by bit.

“Can we just get to the part where you know it, then?” Carl would ask, and it wasn’t a hostile question, only to him the most expedient inquiry.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” was always Greg’s solution to things. He was a linear sort of man and while there was nothing wrong with such a notion, Keith couldn’t always make his brain work from A to B and then onto C.

But he was determined that they would work it out between them, rather than attempt to force his own concepts upon them once more. It was too heartbreaking to be rejected in such a way.

They all wanted to be high...where they might forget themselves and smile.

“How the fuck are we going to remember all this?” Carl cried, and the others shook their heads and grinned.

The music knew what it wanted to be, and would thus drag them along.

If only _everything_ cooperated so well, with an eventuality which never failed to arrive.

 

“Is this honestly a complaint?” Stewart asked, and it was a strange question to be sure but contextually in his mad world there was no other way to express it.

“Why shouldn’t I have my own if I like?” Keith replied.

“There was only supposed to be one chef for this tour. And as far as I can tell he’s doing a decent job, you lot have nice suppers and we don’t have to worry about wrangling everyone to come along somewhere we end up losing half of them and a few get pinched by the coppers, and the bill is always outrageous.”

“But I don’t like the man’s food, simple as that.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t. He’s not appealing to _my_ palate, I can tell ya that!”

“So you’re saying this isn’t because Greg picked him?”

“No!”

Stewart looked into Keith’s bloodshot eyes narrowed beneath the shaggy fringe. “Emo, I’m speaking not as your manager, but as someone who is honestly attempting to hold on to what small shred of sanity I currently possess. You do realize what an indulgence this is, full-stop.”

“Look lad, I’ve paid me dues, I’ve been out on the boards for yonks and it’s time I start living like a man. And if I want my own chef I’ll bloody well have him!”

“But there’s no money to pay someone else!”

“You always seem to _find_ the money, don’t you? So I suggest you do.”

This last came menacingly soft, almost seductively voiced, and Stewart nearly said _I see you’re taking gangster lessons from Spud, eh?_ That was the pisser of it all, for certain: the two were much more alike than they’d ever admit or acknowledge, even as far apart as they tried to stand. So there was nothing left to do but throw up one’s hands and surrender, rewarded with that smile which told him _I always get what I want_.

And Stewart couldn’t help but think _God help you when you don’t. **All** of you._


End file.
